"punctured" poems
Stricken by the absence of color,
and the absence of rainbows that once sung to me.
Nullified and numbed by the irrationality of my ego,
and my hatred for sanity.
These are punctured wounds by the hands of the stained glass,
as this shattered hourglass speaks gibberish to me.
I'll take all the blame,
it was all my fault anyways.
As if my world wasn't trippy enough,
the only thing standing in my way is you.
So let violence sing one last time...
Scream for me poetry.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 5:56 PM UTC
In a broken down hut
In the middle of the wood
Nor pizza hut nor Squirrel's nut
Can calmly describe that, that could
And somewhere within thy
Lies a seemingly twisted fate
Where two old hags bye and bye
Will simultaneously copulate
It would arise my suspicion
Should there be a banana
and henceforth there be a petition
To Outlaw that Repulsive banana
For one to see into the future
Monkeys would be granted intelligence
Causing bananas to nurture
and my brain to be punctured by a fence
If you still can't see
That bananas are a fruit
Then I guess you will have to ***
While gassing toot toot
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 4:43 PM UTC
My feet
Are so far away
From my head.
I think that they are
The most fortunate
Piece of my body.
Rarely are they
Punctured
Or stabbed.
Clawed
Or sliced.
They even try
To hold me up
When I'm too dizzy,
Depleted to think.
To bad I hate them,
For they are still
A part of me.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
Punctured are the lungs I've used for breathing
This seething ever-romantic feeling
The peeling of skin that reveals the concealed
And opens up the undying existence of the unseen
As my own existence is also undying and unseen
My mind and ego trying to convince me otherwise
This is my illusion
Intruding my mind and infecting it with disparity
And with no clarity of what is to come
I drown in fear that I will succumb
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 2:30 PM UTC
*Let me be captured by the night.
Engrossed in the conversation
between the stars.
Syncopated twinkling like...
thousands of fireflies
trapped within sealed jars.
Let me be enslaved by the moon.
As I drink her glow in
greedy insatiable gulps.
Crestfallen...
Her beam with an agenda...
As the landscape she sculpts.
Let me be ensnared by my solitude.
But I hear crickets...
Chirping and chipping away at my
bastion of dreamstate.
Persistent calls
I try to shun
that never abates.
Let me be trapped in my thoughts.
So I could harness...
And immortalise them in
indelible careless scribbles.
Erecting and...
Rebuilding them from the
rubble of conflicting squabbles.
**Let me be overwhelmed
by the mess of my being...**
Let me wallow
Then emerge strong from this
decrepit state of mind.
Let me breathe heavy from my
punctured lungs.
So I could heal in time before
true solace
in this dark,
I would find.*
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 12:05 PM UTC
Flying
above a layer of
cotton clouds, woven white lining clear blue
It looks like a snow-coated hill,
punctured by snowdrifts and gaps
where that blue, clear clear blue
peeks through
Don’t fall through
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 11:16 AM UTC
My position is distant
My path discursive
My equality punctured
Set back, tortured
My corpse is painted
My rainbow is tainted
My bones are contracting
My skin is cracking
A knowledge abductions
Formed with childish seduction
Leaving me
Foam on the Dead Sea
Holding back
The tears of the seldom heard
Holding back
The worst kind of words
I'm heliotropic
Turning, turning, turning
My soporific voice
Is dying, dying, dying
Like a suicide survivor
Submerging ever higher
Schizophrenic priestess
Nepotistic phantom
I'm sand
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 1:02 PM UTC
If I were only me I would drive to San Francisco
and jump off the big orange bridge.
I might do it if I knew it
wouldn’t hurt them,
but I can't because it would
so I keep fighting all
this **** that haunts me.
I have eleven reasons not to do it,
eleven people I will not name,
eleven reasons
not to hit the water at 86 mph,
eleven reasons to avoid massive internal bleeding,
to avoid broken ribs and punctured lungs,
to avoid …telescoping fractures……
asphyxiation by blood and……
….telescoping fractures……..
Eleven reasons to avoid 4 seconds
of second guessing.....and telescoping fractures…..
Eleven reasons…… …....................OK twelve.
Eleven people in my life I couldn’t do it to.
Twelve including me because I know I won’t like
the sound of what it might sound like,
the difference in my mind between the sound
of fractures and the sound of telescoping fractures,
a terrifying sound, enough to keep me away from
San Francisco, not to mention the big orange bridge.
I lie awake at night with numbers racing around inside
my head, 60 seconds in a minute, 60 minutes in an hour,
4 seconds from rail to water, 220 feet to fall,
24 hours in a day, 86 miles per hour at impact.
I keep counting and sleeping fitful frightening sleep,
endure nightmares of falling, flying off the big orange bridge,
reaching upward, the bridge getting smaller and smaller,
and every morning I wake before impact still a martyr
for all of us.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 1:03 PM UTC
Sanctuary is here; hiding in plain sight
Bedimmed beings step into the light
Stumble upon you may; hear us you might
All is welcome; no guard dogs that bite
Step inside, matters not armed or unarmed
Come as you are; steady or alarmed
Sip and drink from our collective fountains
Rest your eyes on our self painted mountains
Come on close and meet us all
Under shady trees or beyond the knoll
Some of us don masks or hide behind names
Some come naked but we're all one and the same
See our lives, spun from heavy layered bales
Woven intricate telling fantastic tales
Weavings we let fly, to catch each other's fables and stories
We admire them for what they are and the seed each carries
Be aware... Should you not understand
We may bear similar signatures but wear different brands
We, the people, trade in euphemisms
Broken sentences and long forgotten idioms
We are weavers, dreamers and scribes
Pouring here the outside world we imbibe
We are unguarded hearts speaking in metaphoric tongues
We provide safe haven for bruised souls with punctured lungs
So welcome traveler, shed your load
You might like it here in our coveted abode
Revel in the monochromatic sights you see
Where freedom of thought is revered in this here Sanctuary...
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 2:12 AM UTC
In your sun I know I'll drown.
So, I rise when it goes down.
Add all my years, I am so old.
Yet, I'll never feel your cold.
Your punctured skin are signs you're dead
but that to me means I am fed.
I'll lure you in with fake romance.
The lies I'll tell, you'll take a chance.
Allaying your fears, I'll promise you years.
Then, muffled screams that no one hears.
So what you see as silver and gold
in reality, a death so cold.
Poetry by Kaydee.
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 1:27 PM UTC
creaking house
my mind cant escape the noise
creak
havent blinked in an hour
creak
creak
skin shivering
creak
creak
been up for a week
Creeeeeeeeeeeeeak
ghostly vision
making the incision
possession of being
what have i become
creak
creak
creak
creak
CreeeeeeeeeeeeaaKKKKK
CreeeeeeeeeeeeaaKKKKK
CREEEEEEEEEEEAAAKKKKKKK
CREEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAKKKK
CREEEEEEEEEEAAAAAKKKKK
CCCRRRRRRREEEEEEEAAAAAKKKKK
.
.
.
.
slipping from reality
ego fatality
falling through my physical being
falling through my physical being
when was the last time i dreamt
a call ive sent
no contact with the outside world
my life has transformed into an oyster with no pearl
CREEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAKK
CREEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAKKKK
CCCRRRRREEEEAAAAKKKKK
CCCRRRRREEEEAAAAKKKK
AND THAT ******* NOISE I CANT ESCAPE
SHATTERING MY BEING
EAR ****
DRUM PUNCTURED
IDLE HANDS TARE AWAY THE FLESH
I FEEL THE PAIN
IM NOT THE SAME
I LOVE THE PAIN
I LOVE THE PAIN
I FEEEL THE PAIN....
AND SUDDENLY IM TAKEN BACK TO THE orchid
where i used to lay...
.
far away...
.
Happy
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 12:04 AM UTC
Spinning chairs, crashing
Dollars bills, in a G-string
Face hammering,
by sweaty sticky ***** cheeks
Plastic suitcases, held tightly
Chug your drink it's time to leave
Walk cautiously, drink powefully
Ting, ting, goes the machine
She winked at her, she pinched back
He said let's go
Their room opening
Laying, the mysterious women on the bed
He grabbed her hips
His wife watched, caressing her ****
Door goes cold
Sun shining brightly
Eyes being punctured into gaping holes
Cheesy over done smile, stepping into the livingroom floor
Perfect outstanding family
Morally hidden, detrimental corrupting
Their professional suits, look so clean
Appearance is everything
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 2:27 PM UTC
Serendipity.
You ******* what!
What you saying, pal?
Serendipity, oh aye, all right,
Aye, seren-fuckin-dipity; whatever!
Tell it to the raggedy soaked-wino,
Look into his rheumy eyes, really look,
Want to kiss his toothless grin, eh? Do you?
Feel his sore-ridden tongue searching you out,
Nay, I thought not, anyway, he hears nothing,
Nothing except the rattle of change.
Tell it to the punctured ****** go on,
Cold body on a cold linoleum floor,
He can’t hear you either, maybe though,
Maybe, slipping away on the last tide of life,
Do-gooder, maybe he will hear you call,
‘Serendipity’ and wonder: what the ****
Until blackness closes in, blanking the stars.
Tell it to the Fourth Bridge jumpers, go on,
Always falling; to them, falling forever,
In hearts and minds, the event horizon of death,
Trapped in limbo, leaving unbearable hurt behind,
Along with serendipity and bad choices.
And the young, oh they need serendipity,
Cruelty of life glittering in furtive wary eyes,
Old already, far beyond halcyon blue-skies,
Used and abused by those closest, the shame,
Erosion of trust and sincerity completed over night,
Christmas ghosts: slovenly laggards by comparison.
Resilient youth! Yep, they ******* need to be,
Grinding machine of town-life hunting them,
Scouring dark corners, gnashing jaws growling,
Crunching down darkened alleys, feeding,
Lapping up the young blood of runaways,
Slavering maw eating them alive; laughing.
With serendipity, they can lie low, maybe hide,
Dream of escape, for they all want out,
Putting misery behind them, quelling cruelty,
After all, they live in a lucky ******* town,
So escape is not impossible, no,
Unlikely, yes, poor wee ********
Serendipity should shout a loud warning,
Run, scrawny urchins, run if you can,
Run for your lives, the rest of your lives,
Town-life’s grinding machine awaits,
Watches for you, so keep running,
Never stop, never look back,
Not ever, not ever,
Serendipity.
©Paul Chafer 2014
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 7:32 PM UTC
Long days seem so much longer.
Distance does not make the heart grow fonder.
You’ve conquered the empire of my subconscious.
Your crusade so short,
Yet I hope your reign continues for eons.
We’re far past passive flatteries,
Instead, we fill each other’s hearts with vows.
You mean them now,
But what about a few months?
What if you decide I’m not what you want?
The torment I am slowly approaching,
Consumes my distant soul.
I can hear the sounds of futuristic loathing,
From when you decide this love has taken it’s toll.
So tell me.
How can I pay this inevitable toll?
How can I save us from Cupid’s malicious tyranny?
His arrow is too far lodged within me,
I cannot remove it.
I can only push it farther and farther
Into my heart until it falls out of my back.
But this arrow, trenchant.
Cupid, the sharpest of marksmen.
Yet colorblind, he is.
He sees not what colors his targets represent.
He draws his bow for the pure love of marksmanship.
Sometimes, yet not often,
He will hit the intended target.
But the odds are scarce.
His subjects are often punctured,
And connected to one whom reciprocated Fate’s desire.
Yet this time…
This time…
Cupid must have hit a target of Fate’s approval.
For thrice he has missed.
This time He and Fate are in sync.
This wound may stretch over time,
But the arrow shall remain firmly lodged within my *****
***** and immovable.
Until you kick it through my backside.
But until then,
I can only endure.
I can only be woo wounded.
I can only survive,
Another ambush of the militant called Cupid.
But I will do it for you,
For by you,
I’ve been so divinely seduced.
Wooed by your lips.
Not by your kiss,
But by the music,
Which your mandibles so express.
I desire not to seal this wound,
But to evade its’ repercussions.
For I have endured a similar wound thrice.
He is winged as if an angel,
Yet Was Lucifer not once an angel as well?
Cupid is an impostor.
A spy of Agony, himself.
He prays on the young, the old, the strong, and the weak.
He cares not who he obliterates in his crusades.
He is a bloodthirsty heathen.
He makes scoundrels of Saints,
And Harlots of Housewives.
Saint Valentine is no Saint.
He is Satan’s nightmare.
At first, his arrows are ecstasy,
But like a cancer,
His poison-saturated arrows
Seep deep within every crevice of your body.
They consume you as if enriched with ******
And eventually rot within your *****
Until it is nothing but dust and a memory.
One day I will assassinate Fate’s Malicious militant,
The one we call Cupid.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 1:25 AM UTC
Your society
Created a
Vanity, so ugly it
Poisoned
punctured and
Primed
A youth.
Self-obsession
Attention starved
Cruel and mindless
inhumans.
Smartphones breeding
this dumb
Generation.
Martyrs,
On digital
crosses.
Look at me.
Define me.
Press "like".
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 10:41 AM UTC
We spread our blanket on uneven
ground, bodies embracing in descent,
They lay on the boxcar floor,
fingers twisted, clutching slats.
Transfixed by the spell of evening,
limbs entwined, interlaced,
Barbed wire punctured palms
faces creased as in old photographs.
We stretched in dawn’s light,
poured coffee out of cups,
and left as it merged with the dust.
Bones upheave ground
unsheathed fingers
clotted with soil.
Copyright © 2003 Gary Brocks
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 9:45 PM UTC
Long night drives with a can of golden liquid bitter bluntness are two ultimates that ease the shaky hands and ghosted thoughts
You left me heaving through punctured lungs and broke every rib along the way and I picked up my scattered bones and apologized for the mess
How many more cups of tea until I become harbour?
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 9:16 PM UTC
This feeling...
Heavy...
Like a wreath bearing down my neck.
Every fibre in me seem to be at loggerheads.
My heart...
Pounding.
Each beat is a hammer
sledging away at my saneness.
My breaths...
Premature and short.
Inconsistent.
I respire full but with punctured lungs.
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 12:14 PM UTC
Let me poor my soul into you
I just need some time to breathe
My lungs are being punctured by doctors
They are no longer mine
Blood spreads disease and family
It's roots are veins, we are trees
Rotted to the core
A single insect can ruin the water supply
I wish I was told that before I left the house
I would've packed a noose
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 5:03 PM UTC
*standing on the threshold of change, I await a fresh-line
but the universe may be unready
if not, I may take to choppy-waters
all by myself*
1.
if we are all stuck in the jam of time
perhaps, if we spread it out real thin
some of us could actually lift off
and catch a ride.. out
free some hostage from the twisting temporal-joints
and the wool-gatherers mind their business
and footsore beggars dine on exotic-things
deep in the heart of the jungle
where Nebuchadnezzar parked his dreams of old
by saving your surprise for a weekday jaunt
we limp on in the vacant-dust of paradox
yet get unavoidably detained by the present
undo the ribbons and the package may unfold its.. things
espy the tick-tock riding the margin of fright
common sense of morn lies delightfully unfinished
and the wrong side of a bold idea gets squashed
the brain-weary ingest their lot and plough on through thickets of tricky-fate
while tiptoeing silent on the farthest-blades of brimstone
holding subtly aloft.. the frankness of aiding-spectres
2.
balloon of green, balloon of blue
hold out your hand and pray you get no inequalities of flame
easy catch of the sound of science scoffing in the parlour
when we try to do something different; take a chance
uncivilised-humour will argue the rings off your punctured-lobes
any germ of new plan must needs be nurtured
let any frenemy go; intolerant-ilk do better by their vacuous selves
remarkably convenient
there's almost enough water in the well
to soak up the ivory-rays and let them fly
and there's a breeze lifting the needle off the ancient-groove
spinning reels on the bay
*no, you will never convince me
that the time-keeper holds all keys
'cos I snuck out furtive.. late one night
and sawed through.. for a whole decade
and well, guess what I have here..*
:)
S T - 24 Jan 2014
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 8:24 AM UTC
I was having a nice Dream
when you shook me Awake.
The sky was bruised with no hint of Light.
You held one thin finger to your smiling lips-
Vacation was the only word whispered.
A day full of flying & driving we finally arrived
Grandma's and Grandpa's; Everyone was outside.
Met with pity-filled smiles
and red-rimmed eyes
steel-gripped hugs about crushed my spine.
Aunties, Uncles & Strangers were there.
You told me to go unpack my things.
*Mom, why did you pack me so many socks?
Vacation only lasts a handful of days.*
Realizations pulsed inside like a serpent had punctured my skin
Then filled me with disgusting truth.
Within a few moments
I'd been stripped & thrown
into a hole full of my most secret fears.
My hideous screams still ring in my ears.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 10:42 PM UTC
Society moves like a bullet
And there's no way to cool it
We're not big fans of reflection
So we become slaves to deflection
Bouncing off of hard surfaces
Like limiting gun purchases
Constriction isn't part of or vocabulary
Proliferation is all we know
Watching weapon supplies grow
I live in a country
Riddled by bullets
Bullets that blast through our ****** body
Though the holes in our mind are bigger
When we can **** those we think are naughty
We become judges when we pull the trigger
But the media makes mountains out of molehills
And it is for those exaggerated reasons we ****
We are stuck in a bullet storm
When TV advertises bullet ****
This helps make bullets the norm
So we treat mass shootings with a familiarity
Because we can't acknowledge the only similarity
Is obviously the gun
We're blinded by the sun
Of defense contractors
They're negative reactors
When we purpose a change
The conversation they rearrange
By firing in every possible direction
This is the aforementioned deflection
And it works
You can tell because people are dying
Or standing in the street crying
Or watching the news sighing
Bullet time has wooed us
Bullet crimes have moved us
There are people who gain wealth
From our diminishing health
They hold society on their rope
And the only way we can cope
Is to ****** that rope from their greedy grasp and pull it
But that's hard to do while being punctured by bullets
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 3:21 AM UTC
we ate government cheese
that came in a dull brown box
we were too young
to understand what welfare
and food stamps meant,
our empty bellies never protested
at the salty orange blocks
in front of the bodega,
we saw a woman introduce a hammer
to a drunk tyrant’s skull
his blood pooling on the streets
was too red for new eyes
we watched hypodermic needles
bloom on stoops
cling to life on curbs
the graffiti on abandoned buildings
was our Louvre, our Salon de Paris
sweltering streets our baseball diamonds
prostitutes, black or brown or both
mothered us between shifts
we grew up in projects,
that sheltered drab lives
and senseless brutalities
gunfire, sharp and immutable
punctured lullabies
we were small boys
watching life unfold
the way one stares at an accident
detached and mildly curious
eyeing cooly the despair
and impossible hopelessness
of growing up poor
in Brooklyn
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 10:40 PM UTC
Collection of characteristics
that the outside world
deems desirable:
empathy,
gentleness,
sensitivity,
the ability to love
deeply, madly.
Yet,
from where I stand,
the view is bleak,
for having a heart that
is big
means that it is
a hundred times more likely
to be punctured.
I wonder
how many times
my soul can
take these blows
before it withers
into
nothingness.
My body aches
of a perceived emptiness
that is
grossly
full of
an echoing,
resounding compilation
of disappointment,
anger,
and despair;
and though I am sad
in the free flowing of
my own bitter words,
I breathe in a jagged breath,
heave a large sigh,
and succumb to my
self-induced
anesthesia
as my big heart
is transplanted
with some smaller,
colder *****
that is not
riddled
with
pain
and
dismay.
I want to be
small,
simple,
average,
for there is nothing
to be desired
in anguish,
and I now
find myself
writhing in
envy of
those who possess
the gift
of
apathy.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 1:45 AM UTC
The past can make it so easy to relapse
not because of the past itself
but
running away from it
and burying it in the subconscious,
hiding it away and letting it silently
fest fest fest.
Is what causes you to be haunted.
---
Pain;
A raging sore, a deep wound, an eternal scar,
just wants to be felt; acknowledged.
So I try not, to ignore it
when I see the marks of the past; knives
digging into the valves of my heart; pain
even when it comes back
strong and hard and fighting
like a hurricane
carrying me away under water
suffocating the freedom in my punctured lungs
I will not let it destroy me.
—-
Its not because I am weak that I struggle with it
but the brain is strong; be aware...
For thoughts can make you a victim of your own mind
though I hope
there will be a time when
healing, that miraculous God-sent healing is at the end.
When
you stop ignoring the past
and instead start loving those broken pieces, the shame you felt,
the fear that crippled
and realise
it will soon ease, soon melt away, soon diminish
and you’ll remember
pain has no authority to hurt
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 5:43 AM UTC